


Roll Up the Carpet So We Can Dance

by victoria_p (musesfool)



Category: The Office (US)
Genre: F/M, scranton times festschrift
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-05
Updated: 2008-03-05
Packaged: 2017-10-03 21:01:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/pseuds/victoria_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, Pam likes making Jim nervous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Roll Up the Carpet So We Can Dance

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [**the Scranton Times festschrift**](http://community.livejournal.com/festschrift/). Thanks so much to amberlynne for all her help, to fleurdeleo for cheerleading, and to luzdeestrellas for looking it over.

Pam wakes up in Jim's arms, the long curve of his body a question mark around hers, like she's the answer he's been looking for. The sheets are faintly damp with sweat, and she eases out from under them, rolling carefully away from Jim so as not to wake him. She's a little sweaty, too, from the unnecessary heat clanking in the pipes and his body pressed up against hers. It's a warm morning, late March and all the promise of spring in the air, and the allergies that go with it.

She stifles a sneeze, lets out a little squeak she hopes doesn't wake him, fingers pressed to her nose and mouth to keep the sound in.

She likes watching him sleep, his face relaxed and smooshed against the pillow, his hair a mess from sleep and the way her hands threaded through it last night. He looks younger, and she imagines she can see the little kid he once was in the lines of his face. The kids he'll have one day. And if that thought makes her flush, well, he's asleep and will never know it.

She reaches for the sketchpad on the night table, knowing she'll never be able to capture him, but wanting to try anyway. She's got a few lines down--the long swoop of his nose, the strong curve of his jaw--when he starts to wake. She tucks the sketchpad away and turns toward him, appreciating the way he presses kisses to her neck and throat, his hands already sliding down to push off the panties she'd pulled back on before she fell asleep.

He rolls them over so he's lying between her legs, his hands pushing her thighs apart and hooking them around his waist as he pushes inside her.

"Good morning," he says, sleep-sour breath warm against her lips.

"It is now," she answers, breathless and laughing, rising up to meet him.

*

When they're done, Pam wants to roll over and go back to sleep, but she forces herself out of bed, lets Jim have the extra twenty minutes this time.

She takes a quick shower, shaves her legs, enjoying the smooth glide of the razor against her skin, wrinkling her nose when she nicks herself and the soap stings the cut.

She dresses while Jim showers, floral skirt and matching twin set, pale blue and butter yellow like the spring sky and sun. She eyes her pantyhose with distaste, decides to go without, even though she never has before--not to the office--and it's probably too early in the year to start. There's at least one more snowstorm lurking in the wind, but it's not going to happen today, and today is what matters.

She eats a cherry yogurt and Jim has a bowl of cereal before they leave for work, and he doesn't notice what she's wearing--or more to the point, what she's _not_ wearing--until they're in the car, and he reaches over for his cup of coffee. His fingers brush the bare skin of her knee where her skirt has ridden up, sending a rush of heat through her.

He glances down, eyes wide in surprise, and then back up at her face, his mouth curving in a slow, wide grin.

"I'm gonna be thinking about that all day."

Pam grins back. "Good."

*

She's the one thinking about it, though, finds herself unable to sit still for too long. She shifts in her chair, feeling the waft of the air conditioning on her calves, the smooth material of her skirt tickling her thighs, the sensation a tease, a preview of what Jim's grin promised earlier.

When Jim looks over at her, he smiles like he _knows_, and she can feel the blush climbing her cheeks, has to swallow hard when she meets his gaze. She tries to put a little mischief in her grin, which only makes him smile wider.

He follows her into the stairwell after lunch, walks her back against the wall and pushes his hands up under her skirt, his fingers warm and firm on her thighs. He lifts her easily, and she hooks her legs around his hips and draws him close, her arms reaching up to pull him down into a desperate kiss. She still has a hard time believing this is hers, that she can do this any time she likes, that he wants her as much as she wants him.

Then Andy comes barreling through the door, arms and legs pumping, and Pam makes herself as small as possible and buries her face against Jim's chest in embarrassment.

"Way to go, Big Tuna!" Andy says, clapping Jim on the shoulder. "I'm training for another 5K. Gotta keep in shape," he continues, even though neither of them have asked. Pam peeks up at Jim and has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing at the look of shock on his face. "I'll see you later." He pounds his way down the steps, the stairwell echoing with his grunts.

Jim waits until the noise dies away, then tips her face up to kiss her again. But she's laughing too hard, shoulders shaking with it. She lowers her legs to the floor, still clinging to his arms, trying to steady herself.

"I hope he remembered to tape his nipples this time," she manages through her giggles.

"Okay, the mood is officially broken," Jim says, finally giving in and cracking up.

They can't stop laughing, and he can't stop touching her, his hand on her shoulder, her cheek, her hair. She takes it and kisses his palm gently, still tingling from his touch.

She smoothes her skirt over her thighs, and says, "Okay, are you ready to go back in?"

He lets out one last bark of laughter, and then they head back into the office. When she risks glancing up at him, she starts giggling again, and he elbows her to shut her up.

Angela is standing at the reception desk, frowning. She eyes them appraisingly, then gives a loud, haughty sniff. "You shouldn't come to work half-dressed," she says. "It's inappropriate. And you'll catch cold, and then spread your germs to the rest of us." She sniffs again and walks away, still clutching the paperwork she probably meant to deliver to Pam in the first place.

"Don't worry, Beesly, I'll keep you warm," Jim murmurs, and Pam blushes again.

Jim spends his afternoon trying to convince Dwight that the new overnight cashier at Wawa is actually a post-drunk-on-youtube David Hasselhoff, but Pam can't enjoy it. She's too busy remembering the feel of Jim's hands on her thighs, and thinking about his mouth there instead.

*

Everything with Jim is still new, still fun. He goes grocery shopping with her and doesn't insist on pushing the cart, though she knows he wants to. In the produce aisle, she watches him sniff melons and squeeze oranges like he knows what he's doing. She wants to paint him like this, surrounded by sweet smells and bright colors. The harsh yellow fluorescent light looks natural on him, because for so long, that was the only light she'd ever seen him in. She wants to capture the tilt of his lips, the flush on his cheeks, the way his frown of concentration smoothes when he figures out which end the plastic bag opens at, and drops two perfectly red apples into it.

She knows her watercolors can't do justice to that perfect red, or the brilliant shock of the oranges, the weird yellow-green cast of fluorescence on his skin.

She's never worked in oils, but she has a set of pastels at home she's spent some time fooling around with, and maybe that will work.

"Earth to Pam, come in, Pam." Jim's voice is warm and mocking in her ear, and she shakes herself out of her reverie and smiles. "Okay," he says, stepping away, mock-terrified, hands raised in surrender, "that smile is a little scary. What are you planning? And will it involve disguises?"

She laughs and doesn't answer. Sometimes, she likes making him nervous.

*

She gets up early again on Saturday morning to sketch him while he sleeps, and then wakes him with kisses when looking isn't enough and she needs to touch.

They've gotten pretty good at this in the past few months, and she likes learning all the things that make him gasp and curse or say her name. She likes that he likes learning those things about her, and how he uses them to make her feel so good that the world disappears for a few minutes, and there's nothing but the two of them.

She's still riding out the tiny aftershocks of her orgasm when he collapses back against the pillows, flushed and tousled, the hair at his temples dark with sweat and his mouth as perfectly red as the apples he picked out for her.

Instead of curling up next to him and falling asleep the way she normally would, she reaches for the sketchpad again, grabs the pastels from her closet, and sits in the chair next to the bed so she can get some distance, some perspective.

Jim raises himself up on one elbow, looking adorably confused. "Pam?"

"Stay right there," she says, fumbling for the yellow crayon, already thinking about how it will blend with the brown to recreate the color of his hair. "Don't move." There's a note of command in her voice that's new.

She likes it.

*

Jim sits still for a good half hour, forty minutes, which is actually way longer than she expected, and she's got the beginnings of a decent portrait, when he gets up off the bed, plucks the sketchpad and pastel from her fingers, and lays them gently on the floor.

"Come back to bed. It's too early to be up on a Saturday." He picks her up and drops her onto the bed and climbs in beside her.

He kisses her, open-mouthed and laughing, and though her hands are covered in smudges of color, she reaches up without hesitation and runs her fingers across his face, his chest, his belly, leaving rainbows in her wake. There was a time she'd have worried about staining the sheets or his boxers or her pajamas, but she doesn't care anymore.

Later, when she's doing laundry, she'll see the smears of color on her nice white sheets, and laugh.

end

~*~

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from the prompt I was given: [**Scheherazade**](http://community.livejournal.com/greatpoets/2155058.html) by Richard Siken


End file.
